The door slamswith enough force to rattle the frame, my hands shaking as I throw the lock and chain into place. Everything inside me coils tight, muscles wound to snapping after a week of holding back.
Holly kneels on the bed, all flushed cheeks and heaving chest, looking at me like she knows exactly what she's done.
What she’s been doing to me—piece by fucking piece—with every sock, every sweater, every goddamn smirk.
“The mistletoe wins.” The words rasp out of my throat, rough and ragged, worn thin by a week of suppressed need.
“It’s got legs.” One step closer, my blood pounds in rhythm with every word.
“It’s got wings.” She drags her teeth over that full bottom lip, and the sight hits me like a physical blow.
“It’s got a fucking twin.” Another step. The mattress dips as I plant my hands on either side of her, caging her in, every nerve in my body coiled and ready to snap.
“It’s got me kissing your fucking brother.”
The words rip out of me, sharp and raw, frustration and hunger colliding so violently I feel like I might burst apart if I don’t do something—anything—to make this stop.
And while I’m falling apart?
Her bow-shaped mouth gives way to a smirk of pure pleasure.
Like my sanity shattering at a cataclysmic level is a Broadway show for her fucking entertainment.
And then she laughs.
The breathlessness, flirty laugh that tells you she’s up to something.
That wicked little laugh of hers sparks something primal in me.
Diving my fingers into her hair—with no finesse and rough as fuck—the mistletoe tangles in her waves. The force enough to yank her head back and tear a surprised gasp from her mouth.
The air between us is charged with every feeling we’ve battled—temptation, frustration, jealousy, and raw need so overwhelming it’s drowning us both.
Me faster than her.
But if I go down, I’m dragging her with me.
Her blown pupils and eyelids heavy with lust suck me in deeper.
Always deeper with her.
A split second later, I claim her mouth—rough, desperate, and everything I’ve been craving.
Possessive, deep, and demanding—it’s angry with every brutal swipe of my tongue—payback for stealing me out of the safety I’d so carefully built.
It’s my turn now.
I hook my forearms under her thighs and slam her back onto the mattress, swallowing her breathless gasp. Her knees cage myhips as my cock finds home against her heat, and fuck if it isn't perfect.
Like she was made for this.
For me.
Those blazing eyes lock onto mine, fearless and hungry, reaching straight past my defenses to touch parts of me I've kept locked away.
Rising over her, I position the nail against the headboard right over her head. “This kinky fucker likes to watch? Fine, he gets the best seat in the house.”
The nail gleams in the lamplight, mocking me one last time before the crack of the hammer drives it into the wood. Each strike of the hammer echoes in time with the pulse pounding in my skull.
